


He Who Owns the Darkness

by NathanWhoWritesSometimes



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanWhoWritesSometimes/pseuds/NathanWhoWritesSometimes
Summary: A man faces a long night in his house with the darkness closing in. His only salvation is his light bulbs.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	He Who Owns the Darkness

One:

Above the abyss. Above the basement stair I stand. Hesitant to risk twenty-one steps for my salvation. With each passing moment, a venture into the depths of my house loses a degree of security. Though with each passing moment, my niche at the top of the stair transforms into an observatory through which I can witness my potential doom. 

The basement. Hollow and lonely and full of useless things that none wish to part with and none wish to own. Knick-knacks and boots and sets of dishes that most assume do not mind the solitude and are too meek to speak for themselves, even if they were given the time. My basement is not so different. My basement carries each and every characteristic of the desperate basements of those around me except for the smallest of all great flaws. 

I keep the lightbulbs in the basement. My father and my father’s fathers kept the lightbulbs in basement. This was a reckless tradition they held with never a second thought. They had not even cared to switch the lightbulbs each and every day, but they were careless men and I take no such chances. I switch the lightbulbs and I observe the filaments and the glass with the closest concern, for I wish not to be consumed as my fathers had been. But not all the habits of my fathers have I eluded. For all my life the lightbulbs remained in the basement, and on this evening they remain there still. 

It is indeed evening. Late in the evening. I hesitate before the stair and this hesitation is perpetuated upon itself, for at any moment that I may be within the clutches of my own foundation, the hallowed and immaculate radiance of the sun will deliver upon the world its final spectacular flare of unfettered safety, and release _them_ about my dwelling. 

_They_ wreak no havoc nor steal one’s possessions. _They_ merely wax and wane about, across, and around the dark with fluid strokes and unerring silence. Not in existence, simply in wait for the unsuspecting and the unwary. But I am not unwary. I will stand before this doomed path, in wait, as _they_ are, observing the darkness as it falls, unable to bring myself to the lightbulbs, unable to save myself from eternal night. 

I stand over the abyss. The lower quarters beg of me, cry to me. Yet I cannot save the basement from this torment. For in moments the abyss will be consumed and relinquish itself to night and terror. Through a reluctant inheritance I acquired the earth before which I stand and the extremities and fixtures the earth has suffered to bear. But as visibility wanes, through orders unknown, ownership of the fixtures, extremities, and earth remain mine, while the void they surround pass from the mind of some uncaring God into the hands of _their_ master. Space, air, and existence are silenced, extremities and fixtures worriedly brace for a perpetual static torment, pleading for a clemency ungranted by their owner. The light of day humbles itself in the anticipation of a presence. And _they_ appear.

 _They_ now writhe in the pit of shadows, asking for nothing because words were never given to _them_ . No illumination will receive _them_ for _their_ form is the lack of it. To the very edge of the first stair _they_ slide and wreak, but not into the slightest particle of light that the stair has succumb to. The stair betrayed _them_ to the light, and _they_ cannot experience it. _They_ are not able to experience in any form. I watch as _they_ writhe and slave to move nowhere at the bottom of the stair. I am utterly unable to see _them_ as _they_ bleed through the lower levels of the house, for one does not see _them,_ and _their_ presence cannot be felt, one only knows. And _they_ cannot see or feel me, _they_ cannot even know me, _they_ simply wait…purely and always _they_ wait. 

Staring into the depths I realize this is not simply an evening. This is an occasion. An event. For _they_ are not alone. With all the horror a man may know and all the silence they may keep, I gaze with shuddering recognition upon a force I have often thought of, though rarely witnessed. 

Upon the floor stands with fury. 

Upon the floor watches with malice. 

Upon the floor exists in agony the warden that keeps _them_. 

Tall and great with sins aplenty, held aloft by nothing but myth remains…

He who owns the Darkness.

Now, barred through fear and hatred, the way will not be known to me until the sun delivers unfettered safety once more. Hesitation has taken from me what can never be returned. But this is of little concern. Measures have been taken to keep me safe. As trophies upon pedestals, emblems upon walls, victory framed in glass, the house is ariddle with lightbulbs. As a cruel stepfather watches closely his acquired ilk, so too does the light observe more than it is observed. Across counter tops, over shelves, under chairs, into cupboards, between picture frames, nothing escapes the eyes of illumination. They serve me well. I know they do. I change the lightbulbs every day to assure they serve me well. I am not afraid while they are near, I can rest while they keep watch, I am not lonely while they remain with me. I am quite well equipped for a night without the lightbulbs. 

A night without the lightbulbs.

The basement was not illuminated. I had wandered aimlessly to the fated ails of my fathers and neglected to change those lightbulbs. And now I have the audacity to assume all the other lightbulbs in house will not equally fail? Each and every morning since I have been my own man one rule had gone unbroken. As the sun rises and gives new light to the earth, I will change all the lightbulbs in the house and give new light to its surfaces. No matter how much illumination the previous lightbulb has left to give, no risk will be taken, they will be disposed of as the sun disposes of the light of the previous day. I spend my evenings with a magnifying glass, checking the filaments, looking for the smallest scrape on the glass or even the slightest touch of blackening. I am gifted with burnt fingertips and scathed vision from holding their flaming beauty and witnessing their blessing at so close a distance for so long a time. And now I have failed them.

The past night I had done a foolish thing. Through the world’s period of darkness I remained awake in my blinding sanctuary, too uneasy to rest. Within me a discomfort stirred, forcing me to check every bulb, every filament, again, and again, and once more. It was as if I were being told by a voice clear and bold that a lightbulb would fail within my house, that it would fail soon. Of course this was not merely paranoia; a light did fail, and it did fail soon. It was my own sense of the relativity of time that had condemned me. For as the sun rose into the celestial heavens, I, in turn, fell into unconsciousness, overcome by exhaustion. And as I fell, so did the lightbulbs in the basement, abandoning me to what I could not prevent. And so I awoke, late on this evening, on this occasion, to witness what awaited my recklessness. Unable to move, unable to breath in my observatory, cut from the world, I stared in wonder and agony at a being of torment that will forever damn my mind. 

Through night and terror I will wait for the rising sun to deliver me from the wrath of…

He who owns the Darkness.

Two:

I gaze into the abyss. I do not know why I fear _them_ or _their_ master. I do not even know what _they_ are or why _they_ remain below my step, but alas, _they_ remain. In solitude at the top of the stair I observe what I cannot see. I study the darkness, so deeply, so eternally I cast my consciousness into the void that I have nearly forgotten my primal fear. And within the darkness, the void, the abyss, I find without end precisely what I look into. An unending, unerring nether, devoid even of nothingness, consisting only of _them_ and _their_ master.

Suddenly, the stair conforms to the black void below it. As though I am thrown before the realization struck me, I leap down the corridor, away from the stair as _their_ master instantly materializes a pace from me, glaring into me with unseen vision. _They_ writhe closer to me now and I am sickened by it. Upon the ceiling is dead the lightbulb that had lit the stair. Of course, I was in no actual danger, the lightbulb in the corridor perfectly lit my perch atop the stair, but the implications of another burnt lightbulb nearly wrings tears upon my face. My lightbulbs do not share the undying affection I have for them. I have treated them with care, with tenderness. No love is given to my table, to my curtains, to my chairs. Only the lightbulbs. I have given them all that I could. Yet they seem to ask for more. If the basement is filled with darkness and the stair has too succumbed, the whole house is not without temptation. 

In my fathers’ den I prepare for disaster. Pacing, round and round the lonely desk, pacing, I rummage through memories for a place I can hide, a sanctuary to escape the darkness. The drawers of the gilded oak desk have been stolen from it and thrown out. It was too difficult for me to light the desk while they remained. Now, in the empty crevices where documents were once compiled and folders had held treasured articles, there stood a lamp, on each side and in the middle, to light the crevices and banish _them_ from my fathers’ workplace. Sometimes deprivation is necessary for perfection. Simplicity is needed for utter safety. The more corners, the more edges and divisions, the more potential for the caste of night to overtake the room. The desk stands naked and shameful in the center of the den, the price it pays for its intricacy. 

A realization comes! Swiftly, I enter the living room, the largest room in the house. Pushing back coffee tables and footrests and the sofa, blocking windows with chairs to shut out the night beyond, I sit. Perfectly still. A light above me. A light behind and to the side and in front of me to drown any shadow that may approach with extortionate illumination. Nothing else is near. Furniture cast aside, unwanted, scorned at the edges of the room while I sit in bliss. In wait for the morning light.

I damn the furniture. Damn the sofa and footrests and coffee tables. Damn the desk my fathers owned. Damn the whole house. All but the lightbulbs. Only they keep me safe, only they keep me warm. Unlike my fathers. They were coarse, brutish men. They would drink from glasses of black liquid with refined people in suits of deep hues. They would slave themselves through the night, spilling black ink on white paper, a single fixture alight in the den, the darkness creeping at their feet. They would sink into shaded rooms with their wives, ignoring their own sons, forsaking them to face the dark alone. They would stand, a solitary fixture on the porch, facing eternal night with only the glow of a cigarette to protect them, and allow themselves to be consumed. But light had shown to be forgiving, loyal enough to toil away only for me, to hide me from the darkness. The house is mine and I would forsake everything my fathers had wished for me, throw out and burn all belongings, so long as the light is with me, and _they_ cannot touch me.

 _They_ have haunted me since my first memories. Lying in bed, the nightlight dimly casting shadows across the room. I remember watching as _they_ reached out from the ceiling and walls, unable to fully penetrate the dim light, not knowing what to grasp onto or even if _their_ intention was to grasp. Simply wandering. I remember seeing _their_ extremities reaching out from the deep of my bed sheets and throwing the sheets to the floor. I remember curling up, tears creeping from my eyes, but no whimpering, and no attempt to reach the door, afraid a mere breath may alert _them_ to my presence. I never sleep with bed sheets.

The first time I had met _their_ master I was a young boy.

One day in the living room I sat and played with my toys. Night was about the house but a lamp formed the bright circle of my play area and I never wandered too close to the edges of its radius. My father was working in the den, drowning reams of paper in his black pitch. I could not see my father, the entrance to the den being around the corner; only a hardly visible light protruded from the door. As I looked up from my play, I found directly ahead of me a figure. 

One which stood with might and malevolence unrivalled…

He who owns the Darkness.

No action was taken from any one of the three parties. Indeed I do not even know if my father saw the figure. But alas, it stood. Silent and frozen. Staring with unwavering vision. The figure itself horrified me but what chilled the sweat on my young brow was that the figure stared not at me, but into the den, at my father. The figure took no heed of me, simply focusing upon the man and his pen, as if waiting. A tear trickled down my face as I watched the figure and thought somehow this was my father’s admission of guilt. That he had done something, somehow, to deserve being consumed.

Sitting in the same spot in the living room years later, I focus scathed eyes on a single lightbulb ahead of me and think of my fathers. Consumed by everlasting darkness. And no doubt sitting idly will provide me with the same fate. Now I know what can be done. Portions of the house are less often traversed than others and possibly have spare light that can be put to better use. I venture to the closet.

On the second floor a closet, closed at all times, waits hopeless for its moment of purpose. It had been closed by my fathers, a single box within, and left for decades with no other mode of use. No other task than to hold this box for its owners. But on this evening the closet will beg to be left alone, for I do not intend to use the closet, but deprive it. And not of the wretched box it has been burdened with, but of its lightbulb. On this, my first time opening the closet, I do not look about it. No sense of curiosity takes me, no sense of wonder for anything I may find. Eyes endlessly fix upon the lightbulb hanging idly above the closet. This is the only portion of the entire house I allow to remain dark. I would not venture into this closet for any reason, for I know of the box, and what is within. The air of night floods from the edges of the closet where the light of the room outside fails to reach. Cold terror grazes my flesh, coming not from within me, but from the subtle darkness. _Their_ extremities can be felt reaching forth to hold whatever will fall to them. The step stool I have fetched sits below the light in solemn servitude. I step upon it and reach forth, burnt fingers glaze the surface of the glass. I smile. Unscrewing the lightbulb with utmost care, I then snatch the humble step stool, bury the somber closet in darkness once more, and dance to the stair.

At the niche at the top of the stair _their_ master stands before me. A wave of fear, strong as the push from common sides of a magnet attempts to dissuade me from standing before _their_ master. I do so regardless. Upon the stepstool, I remove the deceased bulb and reach to put the other in its place. Then a trembling within me begins. I lose balance, and I fall away from the abyss, as if the force of the magnet has overcome me! In my panic, I crush the reconciling lightbulb in my hands. Glass shatters, driving into my palms and fingers, hoping to escape through the other side. Shards escaped my hands, diving to reach me at the floor. As my skull strikes hard wood, the raging glass showers upon my eyes, and I scream. Hardly on my feet, huddled against the wall I wipe the blood, not knowing how much comes from my hands or how much comes from my eyes. As drops of blood and large fragments of glass strike the floor, rivers of blood and small fragments of glass cling to my body, and the more I wipe the blood, the more it spreads.

  
  
  


Three:

I scream. For long moments I scream. Huddled there, above the basement. _Their_ master watching me. The figure seems to grow closer as I lean against the wall. Arching over me without moving, drowning me in shadow, opening a grand maw and drawing me in. The scream that utters from my mouth this moment is of fury. My scathed vision becomes red. I bolt down the corridor, crying aloud and flinging my arms, spattering the walls with my blood. There is nothing but destruction left for the house. I kick at mirrors, their sorry reflections dancing across the room. I throw empty chairs that batter walls, dimming their perfection. I flip the table, unused for years, a leg snapping as it strikes the floor. I thrust over the china cabinet, a great crash, a great cacophony as hundreds of sorrowful dishes cry out in agony all at once. I grab a picture frame on the mantelpiece; I cannot remember what the picture was of or why it stood there. I hurl it in fury across the room. It flies forth and cascades with a lightbulb on the kitchen ceiling. Both shatter and rain to the floor.

I now gaze thoughtlessly at the torn filament swinging from the ceiling. I have done nothing in my adult life that was not solely for the lightbulbs. And now they cannot be trusted. I do not know why. Perhaps they have contempt for me because I had forgotten to change them this passed morning. Perhaps they have contempt for me because they did not like being changed every day. Perhaps they have contempt for me because they did not like the feel of my grasp upon them. Perhaps they have contempt for me because they simply hate the fact that I exists. I cannot decipher which, if any, are true. 

The light in the living room begins to flicker.

Slowly turning toward the lightbulb, I glare deep into it with cruel loathing. With loving tenderness. Begging it. Threatening it not to forsake me. I close my eyes. Sweat and blood seep from both eyelids, raining down my face, pattering onto the chipped, worn, glass bitten floor. A tear slides down my right cheek, and stays there. 

Up, up the stairs, two by two, three by three, onto the second floor, and into the closet. The doors of the forsaken closet swing open and below in subtle darkness sits the box. On my knees the wretched box slides closer to me. On my knees the wretched box is slowly opened. And the gun removed from within.

The closet is the only thing in the house to ever rejoice, its burden lifted, its doors left open to the light of the room beyond. I stand before the corridor now, black as pitch, for the lightbulb above it has betrayed me as well. The living room behind me stands in darkness. Every single lightbulb within has forsaken me. _Their_ master stands at the end of the corridor, _they_ writhe before my feet. As I turn, I find _their_ master also stands at the entrance to the living room. There is no knowing whether two masters exist, whether infinite masters exist, whether the master can move from one place to another instantaneously, or whether the master is everywhere the darkness remains. Whether the master is the darkness.

Turning to the corridor, arm raised high, gun pointed, bullets fly forth from me. They are cast across the whole of the abyss, through _them_ , over _them_ , below _them_ , into _their_ master. Flying again and again, bullets vanish in eternal night. And I stop. Face expressionless. Fury wasted. Hope long drowned in my contempt for my home. All remains the same. I have fired into nothing and nothing has happened. _Their_ master stands before me, _they_ writhe below me. All remains the same. And the lights flicker off in the den.

Four:

Step by step. Step by step up the stair I skulk. To the second floor, _they_ follow me. As I reach the stair the whole floor below me succumbs to night, and _they_ wait for me below. As I step upon the second floor the stair succumbs to night, and _they_ wait for me at its summit. I stray through a corridor, into my fathers’ room where long nights were spent with their wives, ignoring their sons. Into their private bathroom I drag my sulking feet, the light in the bedroom evaporating as I enter. _Their_ master waits at the door.

Climbing into the tub, I sit. The tub is white. The tub is the ever pristine color of light and I sink deep within it. No darkness will hold me in the tub. Three lights glow above the vanity. Illuminating the area where my fathers would groom their monstrous faces and make them presentable to their refined people. Where my fathers would dress, putting on their black pants and suits of deep hues. Donning their belts. I nearly wish my father was here. My father would not be afraid of _their_ master. My father would scream and shout at the master, throw the master out. 

No, my father would see the darkness as my problem. My father would force me to handle it on my own, throw me into the basement until I found a solution. I do not wish my father was here. I am glad my father was consumed.

Two lights remained above the vanity. I notice a shadow under my clothing and realize even they cannot keep me safe. I violently tear them from my body. Banishing the darkness cradled underneath my shirt, within my pant legs. Laying naked in the tub I look at myself. My body is not an odd body. My body is the body of my father. Of his father. Of the figure in the doorway. I see no reason for this torment. I see no reason why I cannot escape the darkness while others, such as my father, live their entire lives without a single thought of it. This is not true. I know why. While their body was similar, they was somehow altered. They could not feel compassion as I can. They could not see the salvation of the lightbulbs because they were already consumed. They were already a part of the darkness. Through their whole existence, my fathers tormented me with the dark of their lives, coercing me to join, to forsake caution, to be consumed. I will never forgive them. I am here, now, naked in the tub, because of my fathers. I damn them.

One light remains above the vanity. Naked in the tub, surrounded by its pristine color, I observe the gun. Its heavy frame warns of the burden of its use. Its pitch black barrel foreshadows its danger. I place the pitch black barrel in my mouth. Looking at the single light, I think of this home, shrouded in darkness. A home owned and loved by my fathers. A home that was a cage for me all my life. A realization comes now that the home has always been shrouded in darkness. It is simply the intensity of it that has changed. I was doomed to consumption since birth. The lightbulbs have never loved me. I damn the lightbulbs for condemning me from the start, though I cannot imagine they care whatsoever.

The single light above the vanity fails to fully illuminate the room. The corners of the ceiling, the far wall, and the far side of the tub are glazed with _their_ essence. Extremities so close, longing and waiting for what _they_ cannot find. For what _they_ will never find. The conclusion has been made. _They_ will never take me. My finger is steady on the trigger. I will never be consumed. The barrel is forced against the roof of my mouth. The final hope is that I will have the courage when time comes. 

My eyes rest on the deep, sorrowful vision of He who owns the Darkness.

The room goes black.

I pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Extremities grope at me and grasped me from every angle imaginable. Every inch of my body is conformed to with the unending limbs _they_ send forth. I am lifted from the tub by _their_ creeping, writhing forms all about and all over me. Carried, pushed, dragged out of the bathroom, across the bedroom, I scream and struggle and writhe as _they_ do. I can see nothing, as if the blood over my eyes has conformed to the night as well, I cannot even hear myself scream. I can only feel. Feel _their_ lonely, contorted forms against mine. Down the stair _they_ force my aching, weeping, horrified body, across the corridor _they_ carry me. I fear the basement, fear the abyss below. I fear being buried within its deep, subterranean trench. But _they_ do not carry me down the stairs. They carry and drag and force my wandering form out the door and into the night. I scream far louder with no more volume than before, as all _their_ number surround me. Within every tree knoll, behind every shrub, before and betwixt every living and nonliving thing. And _they_ drag me through the wilderness, across leaves and grass and rocks, far from my home and even further from my lightbulbs, as the morning light dawns on the horizon.


End file.
